Harlow gently patted her lips with her napkin. I marveled that her lipstick stayed put with only a faint trace of a Cupid’s bow showing on the linen. “I think we can come up with something more diplomatic than that if we put our heads together.”
I waited for a moment, testing to see whether any brilliant deductions would surface, but the only thing that came out of my pause was a delicate burp. I blushed. “I talked to Murray. She said Walter never mentioned Diana when the cops talked to him about Susan’s death. I bet he hasn’t told her about her mother.”
“I know.” Harl grinned at me. “We’ll simply tell her that we were her mother’s friends, that we’re paying our respects and are sorry about what happened. Karri told me that in the past few months, Susan mentioned that she and Diana were trying to rebuild their relationship.”
That was an interesting tidbit. “One way or another, we’ll find out if Walter contacted Diana when we talk to her. Why don’t we invite her to the memorial for Susan? You can bet Walter won’t, if they’re at odds as much as Karri says they are. Speaking of which”—I turned to Andrew—”how are plans for the service going?”
“Got it all set up. I’ve notified the paper about the event, so he can’t back out. Prepare for a deluge—people loved Susan, and the affair is going to be swamped. But we can watch him in action then.”
“Murray’s convinced he’s innocent.” I made a decision. “Harlow, how about we just get this over with? Let’s drive down to Seattle and visit Diana tomorrow.” I wasn’t looking forward to being the bearer of bad news, but our options were limited. I dreaded thinking about what would happen if we got there and the girl hadn’t heard of her mother’s death. How were we going to tell her?
Harlow’s eyes were bright, and I noticed that her pupils were a little dilated. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. I didn’t sleep very good last night.”
Andrew filled us in on the memorial party. He had persuaded the writers group to host it so soon by offering to coordinate everything himself. After a short speech on what Susan had meant to her fans, apparently every eye in the room had been watering, and he had his go-ahead. I wondered how much he was spending out of his own pocket for this but wasn’t sure how to ask without seeming nosy or, worse, patronizing. I had no idea whether Andrew made a good living from his work. His car was nice but not fancy, his clothing well kept but not the latest fashion. He said he wasn’t as well known as Susan, and I assumed that meant he didn’t sell as many books as she did.
“So, we’re set. Tomorrow we visit Diana and on Saturday we see what we can find out from Walt.”
“Okay. I’ll be here at eight-thirty sharp tomorrow. Be ready to go.” Harl pushed back from the table and picked up her dish, depositing it into the sink.
“Sounds good.”
Andrew caught me near the refrigerator. “Can I stay for a while?” His whisper told me that he wanted to be alone.
Together. Just the two of us. My mind weighed the question, but my heart answered. “Sure,” I whispered back. Was I falling for him? Or was I just infatuated? I pushed aside the question, it didn’t matter; all I knew was that I wanted him to stay.
Harlow left, giving us both a tentative hug. Something was out of sorts with her, but she didn’t seem in the mood to talk. We would catch up on our way to Seattle.
Andrew sat on the sofa and cautiously pulled me onto his lap, taking care not to bump my knee. “No protests.” His arms found their way around my waist and I relaxed, leaning against his shoulder. “Let’s not talk about Susan or ghosts or danger. I want to kiss you. I want to nibble on your ears. I’m telling you this in case you want me to leave, because once I get started, I’m not going to want to stop. Tell me how far I can take you, Emerald. If I can take you at all.”
He traced a line from my breasts, where the top buttons on my shirt were open, along my neck, gently grazing the skin. I shuddered. It had been so long since a man had touched me, had made me tingle and zing along every nerve in my body. His hand slid into the depths of my hair and he turned my head so I was facing directly into his eyes. “I don’t know where this is going and I can’t give you an answer. But I want you more than I’ve wanted any woman in a long, long time.”
I bent my head, taking his lower lip between my teeth and sucking gently. Black eyes flashing, he let out a quiet groan. I wrapped my arms around him as he lifted me higher onto his lap. He buried his face in my breasts and I pulled him to me, my breath coming in gasps as he slid one hand up my shirt and fingered my nipples through the silk of my bra. Delicious and dizzying—no one had touched me this way in so long. I tugged at my blouse buttons as he reached around to unhook me.
“Ripe,” he murmured. “So round and heavy.” He cupped them, squeezing gently, as if he were testing peaches; then with a firm grip, as if he owned them and me along with them. As he sucked greedily, I shifted to allow him access and he flipped me over, looming above me and I lay flat, pressed against the sofa, with his tongue flickering against my nipples as his fingers slid under my skirt to make the ache between my legs grow. I fought for control, fought to retain some sense of self, but his energy threatened to embrace me, to overwhelm me.
“No—no—not yet!” A shiver of despair echoed up my spine.
Andrew stopped where he was, staring at me through those dark and brilliant eyes, hair falling out of his ponytail to trail down against my skin. His lips were set, not in a smile, but in a firm line, and when he looked at me I felt that he was searching for a path into my soul.
“I can’t make love to you tonight. Andrew, I have to take it slow. I want you, but I can’t get lost in you yet.” I held my breath, praying that he would understand, wouldn’t go charging off in a huff.
He took my chin in his hand, gave me a single nod, and kissed me sweetly on the lips before pulling away. “We’ll take it slow.”
I slipped on my shirt and pulled the ends together, tying them under my breasts. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go so far—but your arms feel so good.”
That made him laugh, a smile breaking through his severity. “That’s a compliment I don’t hear often enough.” He brought his fingers to his nose. “I can smell you on my fingertips. It makes me hungry.”
I shivered, once again feeling as if I were with a wolf that was prowling the night. Not a player—no, a wolf in the northern mountains tracking the scent of his mate who was unaware she was being followed. I realized how little I knew about him. He was still a mystery.
“Emerald, tell me something: Are you afraid of me? Or are you playing it safe?”
I thought for a moment. He did frighten me a little, though I didn’t know why. I hadn’t seen this side of him before, strong, demanding, and yet—and yet, he had stopped when I asked, and he was still sitting here, not rushing away with his ego crushed. “I’m playing it safe. I need to. For the kids. For myself.”
With a nod, he stood and pushed back the strands of hair that had come loose. His ears were burning red. He was as pent up as I was. “Do you want me to sleep on the sofa? After yesterday morning—”
“The spirits weren’t quiet last night, but they left me alone. I slept down here with the phone right next to my head, and I plan to again tonight. If they come back, I’ll be out the door and into my car before they can lay a hand on me. Everything should be fine.”
He acquiesced. “Be careful. I want you whole, intact, in my bed. Actually, I want you whole and intact no matter what.” He picked up his notebook. “Get some sleep, Em. Tomorrow is a big day. You and Harl want to be fresh for your drive.” We shared a lingering kiss at the door. He patted my ass. “You’re gorgeous, you know that? Lock the door after me.”
After he left, I stretched out on the sofa, replaying the scene over and over in my mind. Only in my fantasy, we didn’t stop.
Chapter Thirteen
Once again, the whisperings started shortly after I went to bed. Samantha complained, setting up a steady ser
ies of yowls and growls until I turned on the lights. The mutterings died down, as did her discomfort, and we all dozed off until shortly before dawn, when a loud shriek startled me out of my slumber. I shot up, blinking as the light hit my eyes. The sound hadn’t actually been audible so much as kinetic, reverberating through my body.
Susan hovered in the archway, clutching her head as tears poured down her cheeks. I pushed my way out from under the covers and looked for Mr. B & U, but he seemed to be contenting himself elsewhere for the moment. She shot me a despairing glance, lips twisted, and wept silently in her world of vapor and mist. Then, with another look at me, her gaze so obviously a plea for help, she vanished slowly as a ray of morning light broke through the window.
Shaken, I forced myself to get dressed and to grab a quick breakfast. I didn’t like the idea of leaving the cats alone in the house, so I put in a quick call to Andrew. I woke him up, but after he’d cleared his thoughts, he was gracious enough to accept Samantha and her babies into his home. Harlow and I would drop them off before we hit the freeway. I managed to corral the calico and her kittens—Nebula, Noel, and Nigel—into their carrier, and gathered together their litter box, a bag of clumping litter, their food dishes, and a couple of cans of food. By the time Harlow pulled up, all we had to do was drop the whole kit V caboodle off at Andrew’s.
* * * *
We took Harlow’s car. Relieved that, for once, I wasn’t the one driving down I-5, maneuvering through the nasty gridlock that built up miles before we reached the Seattle area, I took the time to relax. Colliding images from the night before vied for space in my thoughts… Andrew and his embrace, my own sexual tension, the terrified appearance of Susan Mitchell this morning. I felt trapped in a kaleidoscope that was spinning out of control.
Harlow wove in and out of traffic. She was skilled in the art of opportunistic driving and we made progress, slipping into openings I didn’t think possible to navigate.
“This is one thing I don’t miss about living in the city,” I said, breaking the silence. “Planning ahead, leaving two hours early when traffic is bad.”
Harlow nodded, ducking into the HOV lane as she sped up. After a while I noticed that she was being unusually quiet. I had the feeling that whatever had been wrong the night before was still bothering her. I broached the subject. She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can talk about it.”
“C’mon, Harl, you know you can tell me.” I knew that she wasn’t good at handling high stress, that it could cause a relapse into behaviors best left in her adolescence.
After a few minutes she took a huge breath and let it out in a shuddering sob. “I’m pregnant. I’ve been suspicious for a few weeks, but yesterday I went to the doctor and he confirmed it.”
“Pregnant!” I jumped as far as the seat belt would let me and would have hugged her if we hadn’t been barreling down the freeway at seventy-five miles an hour. “Oh, Harl! Why are you upset?”
She squinted through tear-clouded eyes. “I’m so scared. I haven’t even told James yet—I’m terrified about what he’ll say, what will happen.”
We swerved to miss some joker who had decided that a slow crawl would do in the express lane, and I pointed ahead to a sign advertising a rest stop. “Pull in there. I’ll take over the driving.” She did as I instructed. When we were parked in the wooded rest area, she unfastened her seat belt and leaned forward, head on the steering wheel.
I patted her back and brushed her hair off her forehead. “Shush… quiet, babe. Everything will be fine. Everything will be okay.” She hiccuped twice and stopped crying as I handed her a tissue. She blew her nose and looked at me, bleak and frightened. And I knew why she was afraid. “You’re worried about the anorexia, aren’t you?”
She bobbed her head. When she spoke, her voice was full of phlegm. “I don’t know if I’ve conquered it, or if it’s still out there, waiting for a trigger. But that’s not the only problem. Goddamn it, Em, I was hooked on coke for years. Is that going to affect the baby? I’ve already had two abortions…”
“When?” I hadn’t heard about those.
“When I was modeling. Sex was everywhere and so was cocaine. Heroin, crack, you name it, I could score it. Sex and blow went hand in hand—they were great separate, but man, put them together and wham, bam, thank you, ma’am meant a fine ol‘ time. A couple of times I was so out of it that I didn’t use any birth control. The pill made me gain weight, so I didn’t take it.” She hung her head. “It’s all a nightmare. I don’t know if I can be a good mother. Lola sure didn’t set a good example for me.” With a grimace, she wiped her nose and brushed her hair back from her face.
“Do you want to be a mother? Do you want a baby?” Strange, but I realized Harlow had never, in all the time we had known each other, mentioned wanting children.
She shrugged. “Part of me does. Part of me is afraid to think about it.”
“How do you think James will feel?” I’d never seen her so low and thought, this is what I used to be like—depressed, terrified to move, terrified to do anything because everything seemed wrong.
She coughed, and a bubble of spit appeared on her lip. I handed her another tissue. “Oh, James will be thrilled. If he knows I’m pregnant, there is no way on this Earth that I will be able to convince him I shouldn’t have the baby. I’m stuck, Em… either I get an abortion and never mention it to him, or I tell James and have the baby because I refuse to lose him. I love him too much.”
There wasn’t much I could say. I wasn’t about to tell her what to do—that was a recipe for disaster—but I did decide to give her something to think about. “Did it ever occur to you that you have good friends who will help you through this? That James will be here to support you? Harl, you aren’t eighteen anymore. You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
“Really?” She looked at me with that schoolgirl wonder that spoke volumes about her self-esteem. Or lack of it.
“Really, truly, and honest, too.” I slid out of my seat and motioned for her to change places with me. I slid up into the driver’s seat of her gargantuan Suburban and buckled in. “Let’s go see Diana. If you want to talk more about this, I’m here to listen. If you want to let it be, that’s fine, too. Whatever you need, Harl. Whatever you need.”
I shifted the car into gear and pulled back out on the freeway. The traffic had thinned somewhat; rush hour was almost over for the morning. We would hit Seattle in another twenty minutes. “Where are those directions?” I asked and Harlow busied herself by digging out the map. She sniffed a couple more times, but the haunted look that had been dogging her all morning had eased up, and I thought that she would manage to get through this. I would do my part to make it as easy for her as I could.
* * * *
A steady rain was falling by the time we exited off the freeway and zigzagged our way to the U-district. Ah, rain. Rain in the springtime. Rain in the autumn. Rain in the winter. The only time it didn’t rain in Seattle was during the month of August, and even then we kept an umbrella nearby.
No matter how hard I tried to get away from this city, I always ended up coming back for one thing or another. I wished that one of those reasons would be Roy’s desire to see his children, but he hadn’t asked for visitation rights in months, and the kids were slowly but surely beginning to see his true colors. As much as I hated the man, I wanted Kip and Miranda to think their father loved them.
Harlow guided me through the labyrinth of one-way streets until we found ourselves parked in front of an old brick apartment building. Five stories high, the brick was cracked in several places, and the paint on the window trim was worn and weathered. Two large juniper bushes shrouded the front entrance, and I made an educated guess that we wouldn’t be finding an elevator inside. Harl started to pull out a cigarette but stopped as I shook my head.
“Don’t do it, not until you make up your mind about the baby.”
She growled something under her breath but shoved the cig bac
k in the pack and jammed it into her purse. We made our way up the walk. “What floor does she live on, again?” I prayed Harl wouldn’t say “five”… or even “four.” Come to think of it, “two” wouldn’t be that great, and “three,” even worse. The bruise on my knee was hurting, and I didn’t look forward to climbing a bunch of stairs.
The gods of bliss were with me.
“The first—115.” Harlow stuffed the paper into her pocket and opened the door. I limped into the dimly lit hallway and blinked. We stopped for a moment to allow our eyes to adjust, then trekked down the narrow hallway. No sounds filtered into the hall; the rooms must be fairly well insulated or else nobody was home during the day.
110, 112… 115. As I approached the apartment I noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Maybe Diana had stepped out to the laundry room or the incinerator, but it still seemed strange for someone in Seattle to leave her door unlocked. I looked back at Harl, uncertain whether to knock. I rapped lightly on the molding of the doorframe.
No answer. I knocked again.
Still no answer.
“What do you think? Should we wait, or leave a note?” I fished in my purse for a notebook and pen.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t think that she’d go far and leave her door open.”
It seemed odd to me, too. Something felt off—wrong. Take a deep breath. Count to five. Knock one more time. Still no answer. A wave of tension played up my spine, and I noticed that the hairs on my arms were standing up. Diana hadn’t stepped out—I knew it as sure as I knew that the other side of the door led to a place I didn’t want to go. Using the corner of my jacket, I gently pushed the door open.
“What are you doing?” Harlow hissed from behind me, but I waved for her to be quiet. The door creaked on its hinges, then gave way and opened another few inches—enough so I could peek around the corner.
I stuck my head in, as quietly as I could, and looked around. The room was furnished with antiques. A claw-foot sofa; dark, heavy end tables; art nouveau Tiffany lamps. For all I knew, they were real. I noticed the art decorating the walls: poster-size reproductions of Susan Mitchell’s book covers. Maybe Diana had forgiven her mother after all. I was about to turn around and leave when a bright red object poking out from behind the sofa caught my eye. At first, in the dim light, it was difficult to make out what it was. In a brilliant flash, with startling clarity, I realized that I was staring at a foot covered by a red stocking.
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